


Defragment

by dracoqueen22



Series: Renovation [2]
Category: Transformers: Shattered Glass
Genre: Consensual Dismembering, Consensual Gore, Double Penetration, Dubious Consent due to Mind Manipulation, Fisting, M/M, Reprogramming, Sticky Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-18 01:08:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29109822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoqueen22/pseuds/dracoqueen22
Summary: After encountering a former friend on a mission, Drift returns feeling a little off. Fortunately, Ratchet knows just the thing to remind him where he belongs.
Relationships: Drift | Deadlock/Ratchet
Series: Renovation [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2135826
Comments: 14
Kudos: 39





	Defragment

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shinibunny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinibunny/gifts).



The raucous interior of the Ark-One’s main dock was a welcome noise to Drift as he stepped off his single-mech shuttle and stepped back onto the metal floor of _home_. The feeling reverberated up through his feet, his legs, his hips, his torso, all the way into his spark.  
  
He drew in a heavy, savoring vent, a tiny little anxieties melting away as the atmosphere of the Autobot ship wrapped around him. He was back, he was home, and most importantly, he had Ratchet within reach once again.  
  
What more could a mech want?  
  
Drift ignored the whistles and catcalls of the dockworkers as he passed. They weren’t important. They weren’t Ratchet. His spark sang with comfort, pulsing the song of his medic, drawing him toward the medbay. Drift shedded discomfort behind him, a bit like the dried energon flaking off his frame.  
  
Assassination was a messy business.  
  
He did it, however, because Ratchet told him to, and anything Ratchet wanted, Drift would give him.  
  
His assignment this time around had been nothing unusual -- another relatively high-ranking Decepticon who was getting in Optimus Prime’s way. Drift had been sent because of his familiarity with the Decepticon ship in question -- one captained by a mech designated Turmoil.  
  
Said mech was only a shadow in Drift’s memory. There was a vague impression of having known the Decepticon once upon a time, but he meant nothing compared to Ratchet, so Drift had dismissed those shadows.  
  
Turmoil, however, did not have the mercy of a Ratchet. He’d looked at Drift like he’d seen a ghost. He’d tried to reach out. He’d called Drift by name; he’d looked relieved. He hadn’t even drawn a weapon which made it easier to stab him through the spark.  
  
The look of shock in Turmoil’s visor had left a queer feeling in Drift’s spark. He couldn’t shake it. The feeling lingered his entire journey home.  
  
It wasn’t guilt. Why would he feel guilty for disposing of a Decepticon who was in Ratchet’s way?  
  
He felt… something. Drift didn’t know what it was, but he didn’t like it. Maybe because he had to travel so far to get to Turmoil’s ship which had been hiding in the rings of a distant planet. He’d been gone longer from Ratchet than he’d liked, and the need yawed inside of him, like an itch he couldn’t scratch. An itch like his modesty panel.  
  
Drift loathed his modesty panel. He never wore it when he was home, but Ratchet always locked one in place when he left on an assignment. It confined him, and Drift wanted it off so he could feel right again.  
  
He rushed to Ratchet’s habsuite and rinsed off as quickly as possible, scrubbing Turmoil’s energon from his armor and his seams. Ratchet hated when he was filthy, and Ratchet hadn’t caused the mess. Besides, the only mess Drift wanted on him was one Ratchet had given him.  
  
Turmoil’s face wouldn’t leave the back of his mind. Not even after the mech’s spark had guttered on Drift’s blade, and his visor went dark, frame slowly graying as it slid off Drift’s sword and crumpled to the floor. He’d stood there for too long, staring at Turmoil’s empty shell, before he remembered his window of opportunity, and fled, detonating the carefully laid charges as he zoomed into the night.  
  
Turmoil’s ship became a brilliant fireball behind him, helpfully ignited by the flammable minerals in the planet’s ring. It would take years for the Decepticons to sift through that wreckage, if they cared enough to look into Turmoil’s disappearance.  
  
Optimus Prime would be pleased, and when Optimus Prime was pleased, Ratchet was pleased. Drift liked pleasing Ratchet.  
  
It was all that mattered.  
  
Drift dried off and hurried to the medbay, excitement attempting to chase away the lingering disquiet. He knew Ratchet had to be elbows deep in someone by the screams. Had they caught a Decepticon? Or had some Autobot been misbehaving? Maybe Smokescreen again. He kept getting caught in shady business deals Optimus Prime had not approved.  
  
“Mechs can survive for days without their fuel regulator,” Ratchet was saying as Drift followed his voice to one of the surgical rooms. “Stop whining.”  
  
There was an Autobot strapped down to the medtable, and Ratchet was wrist-deep in his chassis. The mech writhed on the berth, babbling nonsense about pain and shrieking apologies. It wasn’t Smokescreen this time though. It was Goldbug who was usually one of Optimus’ favorites.  
  
He must have really fragged off the Prime.  
  
Drift moved closer for a better look. Half of Goldbug’s external armor lay on a nearby table. One of his dangling tubes dripped coolant to the floor, and his vents roared. His field reeked of pain.  
  
Pfft. Amateur.  
  
No wonder Drift was Ratchet’s favorite. He didn’t complain when Ratchet took care of him. He didn’t complain when he got Ratchet’s attention either. He was a good pet.  
  
“Welcome home,” Ratchet said with a glance over his shoulder, a few spatters of energon on his face.  
  
Drift wanted to wipe them free. He only wanted his energon on Ratchet’s face. Goldbug didn’t deserve to be taken apart by Ratchet. He didn’t appreciate it.  
  
Ratchet reached out with one hand, tugging Drift in by a firm grip on his chin. Drift went gladly, pressing up against Ratchet’s side, rising up for a kiss. Ratchet’s mouth was hot and hungry, his field surging over Drift, sharp and pungent with hunger.  
  
Drift moaned.  
  
Ratchet bit his bottom lip and pulled back, turning Drift’s face this way and that, as if examining him. “Were you a good pet?”  
  
“Yes, Ratchet,” Drift said, his glossa flicking over his lips, his array throbbing behind the confines of the modesty panel. “Turmoil is dead. His ship is destroyed. No survivors.”  
  
“Mmm. You were a very good pet,” Ratchet purred. He pulled his other hand out of Goldbug’s chassis, idly shaking the fluids from it. “That deserves a reward, doesn’t it?”  
  
Drift buzzed with want as Ratchet’s hand grazed his modesty panel. “Will you take it off?” he asked, hips rocking toward the faint touch. “Please?”  
  
“Of course, pet.” Ratchet yanked him into another kiss, and Drift sank into it. He felt the catches give on his panel before it clattered to the floor.  
  
Cool air wisped over his exposed array, and Drift sighed. His spike half-pressurized immediately, straining toward Ratchet’s hand. Pearls of lubricant spilled from his valve, staining the inside of his thighs. He clenched on nothing, horribly empty, having spent far too long away from Ratchet.  
  
Drift moaned against Ratchet’s mouth and tried to cant his frame closer, hoping Ratchet would touch him, would stick his fingers into Drift’s valve, or squeeze his spike, or something. Anything to chase away the look in Turmoil’s visor when Drift’s sword had cleaved through his spark.  
  
Ratchet’s grip on his chin tightened, and he pulled back, head tilted. “Did you run into any issues?”  
  
“No,” Drift said, and he sucked in a ventilation, hesitating. Would Turmoil’s behavior be considered an issue? He’d killed the Decepticon in the end. Jazz’s bombs did the rest.  
  
“Hmm.” Ratchet’s optics narrowed, and dread pooled in Drift’s tanks. Had he disappointed Ratchet?  
  
“My target,” Drift blurted out, desperate to make up for the hesitation. “He recognized me. Knew me when I was, you know, one of them. I think.” He frowned, orbital ridges wrinkling, that queer feeling rising in his spark again. “It was easy.”  
  
Ratchet hummed again, but his gaze wasn’t as sharp as before, and the stroke of his hand over Drift’s spike suggested he wasn’t actually angry. Thank Primus.  
  
“That deserves a treat, don’t you think?” Ratchet released Drift’s spike and cupped his valve instead, fingers fitting through the loops of his piercings and giving them a tug.  
  
Drift shivered. “If you want it to.”  
  
“I do.” Ratchet tugged again, sharper, and pleasure throbbed hot and hard through Drift’s array. “Because you’re such a good pet, and you deserve it, and you belong to me. Isn’t that right?”  
  
Drift moaned, his hands fisting at his sides, his feet inching further apart, giving more room for Ratchet to work between his thighs. Ratchet obliged, sliding a single finger up into Drift’s valve, stroking an inner node cluster. Drift’s knees wobbled.  
  
“I do,” Drift said fervently. “I’m yours. All yours.”  
  
“I know.” Ratchet stroked him again, sending a wave of electric pleasure through Drift’s array, only to withdraw and return to Goldbug. “I have to finish up here first. Why don’t you go into the playroom and wait for me, hm? I have something special in mind.”  
  
It took all Drift had not to throw himself back at Ratchet as he stood there, hard and aching and dripping. But Ratchet was not to be disobeyed.  
  
“Yes, Ratchet,” he said, and gave a lingering look to Ratchet before he rushed to obey. Behind him, Goldbug started whining again, complaining louder, but the closing door drowned him out.  
  
Ungrateful mech.  
  
The playroom was a medberth Ratchet had specifically set aside for them to use, separate from their quarters because it was fully stocked with everything Ratchet would need to take Drift apart. Excitement ran a thrill through Drift’s spark, and more lubricant seeped out of his valve, leaving a few drips on the floor behind him. He didn’t know what Ratchet had planned, but it didn’t matter either.  
  
Ratchet always had the best ideas. Terrifying, wonderful, exciting ideas.  
  
Drift pulled himself onto the medberth, center stage in the room, and he waited, gaze locked on the door. His array pulsed with want, but he fisted his hands at his sides and spread his thighs, so his bare array would be the first thing Ratchet saw. He knew better than to touch himself, no matter how much his spike ached and beaded with pre-fluid. His valve swelled and throbbed, clenching down on nothing, leaking onto the berth cover.  
  
It was an agonizing wait.  
  
Heat pulsed through Drift’s frame. His valve ached and ached, leaking more lubricant until it became a puddle beneath his aft. He stared and stared at the door, resisting the urge to comm Ratchet, every breath of air from the vents brushing over his exposed array and driving him to distraction. He clenched his fists to keep his fingers from inching toward his array.  
  
At last the door whooshed open and Ratchet entered, wheeling in a tray with a variety of instruments Drift immediately recognized as Ratchet’s disassembly kit. Drift went hot and cold all over, his enthusiasm cooling as he realized what Ratchet had in store for him. He loved when Ratchet literally took him apart, but he also hated it.  
  
He hated seeing his internals outside of his frame. He hated the sensation of it, but he loved the look in Ratchet’s optics, the hunger in his field, the skill of his hands as they dipped into Drift’s internals and caressed the most intimate parts of him.  
  
Drift slipped his feet into the stirrups. It wasn’t up to him, it was up to Ratchet, and this was a reward. Because he was a good pet.  
  
The stirrups clamped around his ankles, locking them in place. He was less likely to hurt himself if he was bound. Well, Ratchet would fix him if he did get hurt, but Ratchet didn’t like it when Drift damaged himself accidentally. He hated fixing things he himself hadn’t ruined.  
  
Besides, Drift didn’t want to bungle Ratchet’s plans either. He wanted Ratchet to be happy.  
  
“Eager, are you?” Ratchet asked as he dragged his hand up Drift’s leg, from the clamp of the stirrup all the way to his array, and the prominent jut of his spike. He flicked the pierced tip of it.  
  
Drift’s engine rumbled. “Missed you.”  
  
“Good pet,” Ratchet murmured, squeezing Drift’s spike, pearls of pre-fluid flooding from the tip. “I don’t plan on playing with this right now, however, so let’s just tuck it away, shall we?”  
  
Drift’s optics rounded. “Ratchet, I can’t--”  
  
His words bit off into a cry as Ratchet did something to disengage the arousal-lock and physically forced Drift’s spike back into his sheath. A dull throb of agony spread through Drift’s array. His backstrut arched, mouth open in a soundless cry, as the pressurized shaft sank back into the sheath, desperately trying to re-emerge.  
  
It had nowhere to go, however, because Ratchet deftly slid a spike cap into place, trapping Drift’s spike within the sheath. It butted up against the cap with an enormous pressure, firm and demanding, the ring grinding against the thick metal.  
  
Ratchet rapped his fingers over the cap. “Better,” he said, and Drift jerked, the dull agony of it slowly pulsing into the volcanic heat of pleasure.  
  
Drift moaned.  
  
“I see you agree.” Ratchet pulled the wheeled tray closer and loomed over Drift’s frame. “Now be still, pet. This is very delicate work.”  
  
Every instinct wanted Drift to squirm, to ease the pressure on his trapped spike. But Ratchet’s word was law.  
  
Drift froze immediately.  
  
He locked his gaze on Ratchet, who reached for the first item on the tray -- an internal expander. Drift’s engine rumbled, his valve immediately pulsing slick as he remembered all the things Ratchet could do to him. He made a helpless sound, knees pushing wider, though the stirrups kept him from spreading his legs further.  
  
Ratchet’s grin widened, his field flush with approval. “I thought you’d like this,” he said as he inserted the expander into Drift’s valve, fitting it snugly. He stuck a finger through the piercing on Drift’s anterior node and gave it a tug while his other hand twisted the expander, each click of it widening accompanied by a long pull to the ring.  
  
It took everything Drift had to stay still. His hips wanted to dance, his valve clenched down against the expander, even as it pushed him open and open and open. Drift’s engine revved, ecstasy flashing behind his optics. Another click, and a sharp pull to the ring had overload sweeping across Drift, roaring through his frame.  
  
He keened, hands gripping the berth covers, locking his limbs to keep from thrashing, the weight of Ratchet’s gaze on him lighting up his spark.  
  
“That’s my beautiful, pet,” Ratchet crooned as he stroked Drift through the tremors. “So good for me, you are. But we’re not done yet. I’ve only just begun.”  
  
Drift panted, sinking into the berth, buzzing with pleasure. He watched, hazy, as Ratchet bent over him with tools in hand, and started to disassemble Drift’s torso. It was a singularly unique sensation -- not so much pain as a myriad of pinches and pressure. Armor lifted away, set aside with care, exposing Drift’s internals to the room.  
  
He was especially vulnerable like this, completely at Ratchet’s mercy, but the delight in Ratchet’s optics made it worthwhile. Goldbug didn’t get it. Ratchet took him apart, and he was sick with fear, probably because he didn’t get the love and adoration Drift was privy to. Ratchet’s field didn’t pulse and hum for Goldbug. It lapped at Drift with increasing arousal, and Ratchet stroked his internals with clear admiration, measuring them with his optics and his fingers.  
  
He liked to favor Drift’s transformation cog. Liked to cup his fingers around it, tracing the complicated whorls, and Drift shivered as the warmth of Ratchet pressed around his cog. It was a sensation he couldn’t put into words, but he never felt safer than he did with Ratchet’s hand wrapped around one of his internals.  
  
His second favorite was Drift’s fuel tank. He touched this next, and a moan shaped itself on Drift’s glossa. There were more sensors around his tank, probably in the event of a rupture, and he could measure the shape of Ratchet’s fingers on it. He knew without looking that it was Ratchet’s thumb caressing the main intake socket.  
  
“I have a plan, pet,” Ratchet said as he stopped fondling and started to work.  
  
Drift kept himself still, though he wanted to shift at the odd sensation of fingers cupping his fuel purifier, wide and flat, resting nearest to his abdominal armor. It was a blunt sensation, always touched perfunctorily. Ratchet didn’t care for his fuel purifier.  
  
Ratchet removed it, capped it, and set it aside, albeit within reach. Safe to remove temporarily, Ratchet had told him. The remaining tubing pulsed a sluggish seep of energon into Drift’s torso, dirtying the rest of his internals, until Ratchet capped them as well.  
  
“Because you deserve a reward, don’t you?” Ratchet gave the expander another twist, and it incrementally widened Drift’s valve.  
  
“Yes, Ratchet,” Drift moaned, the pleasure cycling up within him again, humming through his lines, buzzing beneath his armor.  
  
“Good pet,” Ratchet praised.  
  
One by one by one, Ratchet took him apart, and Drift’s ventilations turned shallow, his every attention focused on Ratchet’s efforts.  
  
On the excision of his transformation cog, set aside next to the fuel purifier, but handled with far more care than the latter.  
  
On the removal of his fuel tank, tucked next to his hip, still attached to him, but no longer within his frame. The pulse of energon through the lines now visible to Drift, and the smell of his internal fluids thick and pungent in the air.  
  
On the extraction of his gestational tank, capped and set to the side. Sometimes, Drift wondered if Ratchet intended for him to make use of it. He’d do it. He’d do anything for Ratchet.  
  
His gaze rolled up to the ceiling, where a mirror had been installed, giving him a clear view of Ratchet humming as he worked. As he deftly removed internals, capped lines, emptied out Drift’s abdomen of anything that wasn’t necessary for him to function. Even his transfluid tank was removed, tucked next to his hip, still connected to him by a thin, rubbery tube.  
  
He’d be able to overload still.  
  
Primus.  
  
Drift wanted to move, to shift, to rock against the berth, Ratchet’s hands in his midsection like an itch he couldn’t scratch. The press of Ratchet’s field against his was intoxicating, so hot and hungry and sharp with arousal.  
  
It was made worse-better by Ratchet’s wandering hands. When he’d pause to pet Drift’s valve, tug on his piercings, stroke his swollen rim. Every extraction was immediately followed by a twist of the expander, a widening of Drift’s valve, his calipers stretching further and further apart, trembling around the force of the expander. His hips ached, protested, until that bled away into pleasure as Ratchet looked at him with approval.  
  
Heat flooded through Drift.  
  
Ratchet grinned and stroked him again, pinching Drift’s node between his thumb and forefinger, rubbing the slippery nub and tugging the piercing, until Drift overloaded again, dizzy from the sensation. His vents came in shallow bursts, his legs trembling, thighs splayed wide. Lubricant pulsed out of his gaping valve, every whisper of ventilation teasing the bared, slick walls.  
  
“A little more, pet,” Ratchet said as he pushed the stirrups wider, further spreading Drift’s legs, his hips opening up, making more than enough room for Ratchet between them, without a bit of strain.  
  
Ratchet had helped him become very flexible over the past couple of years. Everything Ratchet broke, he repaired, better than before.  
  
Drift worked his intake and held as still as he could, while trembles raced through his frame. His spark felt too large for his chassis, and he wanted so much it seemed to swallow him.  
  
“Please, Ratchet,” he begged.  
  
“I know, pet,” Ratchet soothed as he finished his disassembly and looked over Drift’s open abdomen with frank appreciation. “You’re just going to lie there like a good bot and let me finish, aren’t you?”  
  
Drift panted. “Yes, Ratchet.”  
  
“Good.”  
  
Ratchet’s attention returned to his array, and Drift’s spark tightened with anticipation. His spike throbbed painfully in its sheath, and Drift hoped Ratchet planned to free it. But, no. Instead, Ratchet disengaged the expander and removed it from Drift’s valve. His calipers fluttered weakly, too stretched to cycle back down.  
  
“Empty,” Drift whined.  
  
“Not for long, pet,” Ratchet said before he fit his hand up inside Drift’s valve, a task made easy by the efforts of the expander.  
  
The uneven ridges of his hand, his wrist, his arm, scraped along Drift’s over-sensitive lining, brushing over throbbing nodes. Drift moaned, trying his best not to squirm, another overload waiting in the wings. Especially as Ratchet pushed as deep as he could go, his fingertips pressing hard on Drift’s ceiling node, on the locked aperture of his gestational port, which was no longer connected to his gestational tank.  
  
Drift gasped, and try as he might, he couldn't stop his hips from bucking, from riding the thickness of Ratchet’s arm, his valve hungry and eager. He squirmed, charge skittering beneath his armor, desperation making his sensory nodes ache. Overload cycled up within him, faster and faster, but before he could cross the threshold, Ratchet stopped.  
  
Drift whined, and reached out for Ratchet before he could think better of it, but Ratchet gave him a look, and Drift wisely dropped his hands back down.  
  
“Don’t worry, pet. I’m not done yet,” Ratchet said as he fitted himself between Drift’s splayed thighs, his spike extending, thick and glossy with pre-fluid already.  
  
“Please,” Drift begged.  
  
Ratchet wrapped his fingers around his own spike and guided himself to Drift’s valve. “You want this?” he asked as his finger-wrapped spike nudged against Drift’s valve, grinding on the outer rim in a blatant tease.  
  
Drift squirmed on the berth, though his legs couldn’t go any wider. “Yes, Ratchet! Please.”  
  
Delight blossomed in Ratchet’s optics. “Of course, pet. You don’t have to beg,” he said, reassuring, and he pushed himself into Drift’s valve, spike and hand alike, straining Drift’s stretched calipers, the uneven push of hand nudging against unexpected sensors.  
  
Drift groaned, long and low, as Ratchet’s ridged armor scraped along his valve lining and sent fire through his array. It was pleasure, sharp and stinging, with capacity warnings lighting up his HUD that Drift dismissed as quickly as they arose.  
  
Ratchet’s field flared, volcanic and sizzling as it layered over Drift, ripe with his lust. He moaned as he watched Drift’s pelvic armor bulge, and his free hand palpated the stretch of Drift’s protoform. He didn’t thrust; he lingered, Drift’s valve rippling around his hand and spike, greedily clenching down on them.  
  
Drift’s vents stalled until he reminded them to cycle. It was so much, almost too much, but Ratchet wanted it, so Drift gave it to him. He held himself still, lest his lining tore, his nodes throbbing from the pressure.  
  
Ratchet’s hand roamed all over his pelvic array, his bulging pelvic armor, and around the other side, to where Drift’s missing abdominal armor and internals left him open to Ratchet’s touch. Through hazy optics, Drift could see the journey of Ratchet’s hands in the mirrored reflection. As Ratchet reached in and in and touched Drift’s valve from the outside, only the flexible mesh of Drift’s valve keeping his two hands from touching.  
  
Ratchet shuddered, his arousal suffocating.  
  
Drift didn’t know what to do with his hands. He wanted to move, to shift and rock and thrust, his entire frame awash with sensation. It wasn’t pleasure. It wasn’t pain. He didn’t know what it was, save that when Ratchet started to move, to stroke his own spike within the gaping tunnel of Drift’s valve, it was too much and not enough.  
  
Every upward stroke ground against Drift’s recessed, trapped spike. Every motion of his hand scraped over Drift’s internal sensors, which nipped back with arousing charge. And then Ratchet’s other hand groped for Drift’s spike sheath, giving it a squeeze, and Drift shattered.  
  
“Good pet,” Ratchet praised through the static in Drift’s audials as his entire frame seized in a rictus of pleasure. “You’re clamped down on my hand so hard, aren’t you? You want more, don’t you?”  
  
Drift garbled static.  
  
“Yes, of course you do,” Ratchet crooned. “You want me to overload, don’t you, pet? To paint your pretty insides with my spill?”  
  
Drift would’ve rocked down on Ratchet if he could move, but he was speared in place by Ratchet’s fisted spike, by the grip Ratchet had on his internals. He was taut and aching, stretched so far he feared he might snap, but even if he did, Ratchet would fix him. He always did.  
  
“Please,” Drift pleaded.  
  
Ratchet’s hand started to move, stroking himself within Drift’s valve, the rasp of his knuckles over Drift’s lining like an itch Drift couldn’t scratch. It burned and scraped, but every pass over his internal nodes chased away the pain with a burst of pleasure. It was dizzying.  
  
The word ‘stop’ danced at the back of his intake, but it never emerged on his glossa, much less his lips. His pain was Ratchet’s to give and to take. He wanted Ratchet to overload, to feel the heat of Ratchet’s pleasure. There was nothing he wouldn’t endure if Ratchet wanted to give it to him.  
  
His valve ached, raw and chafing, as Ratchet’s strokes grew faster and faster, and his ventilations matched the pace of his hand. He shoved into Drift, harder and faster, his other hand restlessly roaming as he groped Drift’s internals, his sheathed spike, the flexible mesh of his valve lining, everything.  
  
“Ratchet,” Drift begged. “Please.”  
  
Ratchet’s delight rang through the room like artillery. He shoved deep into Drift, mid-forearm grinding against Drift’s anterior node as he spurted, the hot splash of his transfluid searing along Drift’s abraded valve lining. Little stuttering thrusts of his hips ground him deeper, until he yanked out, the last bits of his spill painting Drift’s pelvic array and valve.  
  
Horribly, horribly empty, Drift made a sound of want and tried to roll up toward Ratchet, his frame teetering on the edge of another overload, his spark pounding in his chassis. Ratchet shuddered as he squeezed out every last drop of overload from his spike, a few dribbles coating his fingers.  
  
“I’ve made a mess,” Ratchet said.  
  
“I’ll clean it,” Drift offered. Anything if it meant Ratchet would touch him and ease the horrible need roiling through his lines.  
  
Ratchet grinned at him, free hand sliding back into Drift’s valve as he offered the soiled one to Drift. “Go for it,” he said.  
  
Drift unclenched his fingers, which ached from his efforts, and took Ratchet’s wrist carefully. He dragged Ratchet’s hand toward his mouth, lapping up the taste of his own lubricant and Ratchet’s spill from the sensitive fingers. Every swipe of his glossa made him shudder, and he sucked on Ratchet’s index finger, wishing he could clean off Ratchet’s spike, too.  
  
Maybe if he was really, really good…  
  
“You’ve got one more in you, don’t you, pet?” Ratchet asked as his other hand started to push, in and out of Drift’s valve, mercilessly seeking out throbbing nodes and attacking them.  
  
Drift moaned around the fingers in his mouth, hips rocking up and down, onto Ratchet’s hand, his spike throbbing in its sheath. It was sore and bruised from grinding against the cap, but every brush of the back of Ratchet’s hand was ecstasy.  
  
“Give it to me, pet,” Ratchet said as his finger curled against Drift’s glossa, pinning it down in his mouth, his thumb hooked up under Drift’s chin. “Give me what’s mine.”  
  
Ratchet’s name rattled out of Drift’s vocalizer, muffled by the fingers in his mouth, oral lubricant leaking out, making a mess. The tension tightened and twisted inside him, but when Ratchet shoved his fist deep enough to grind hard on Drift’s ceiling node, he shattered.  
  
His fans screamed, his entire frame jerking and going taut with the force of the overload, static spilling into his audials, his optics, until his spark felt like it was going to implode, and the darkness swept him overboard, leaving him floating on a sea of satisfaction.  
  
By the time he surfaced, his chronometer informed him that the better part of thirty minutes had passed. Ratchet had lovingly reassembled him, as he always did, and every internal was back in its rightful place. Well, at least as far as Drift could tell. There weren’t any pieces laying around, and his armor was locked back around his midsection.  
  
His array had been wiped down, and while the reset had caused his valve to contract some, it hadn’t fully tightened. Wisps of cold air teased up inside his valve, causing his internal sensors to flicker fitfully in an exhausted attempt to reawaken.  
  
Warmth wrapped around Drift, and when he turned his head, he found Ratchet, stowing the wheeled tray into the corner of the room before he returned to Drift’s side.  
  
“Welcome back, my pet,” Ratchet said, and Drift shivered.  
  
The warmth grew into a comforting heat, and Drift tilted his head as Ratchet gripped his chin and leaned over, stealing his mouth in a claiming kiss. His field layered over Drift’s, and Drift hummed into the kiss, not a trace of his earlier unease to be found.  
  
What did he have to be worried about?  
  
Drift belonged to Ratchet, now and forever, it was the only truth that mattered.  
  


***


End file.
